


The Loneliest Lord in Westeros

by Dylanobrienisbatman



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, Love Confessions, Making Love, Mild Smut, True Love, but Arya is not a Lady, gendry is a lord, missing each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 06:43:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18823222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dylanobrienisbatman/pseuds/Dylanobrienisbatman
Summary: Gendry spends years as Lord of Storms End, but it all feels hollow.Lords and ladies present their daughters to the last son of house Baratheon, but he never even entertains the thought.He’s a lord, and he’s lonelier than he’s ever been.Funny how a sword to his throat in the middle of the night changes everything.She’s still a wolf, wild and feral, but he is hers, and only hers.





	The Loneliest Lord in Westeros

Being a Lord never really felt right, Gendry wasn’t suited to it. Hadn’t been built for it. He was told he was good at it, that his people were happy, that his lands were thriving. He was told he was a  wonderful lord  but the words felt like poison, bitter against the roof of his mouth. 

It’s the last thing she’d said to him before she rode away to Kings Landing, and he had never seen her again. 

It had been 5 years. 

Storms End had slowly becoming like a home, as much as he imagined it could. 

He learned to read, to use the right forks and talk like a lord. He learned how to run his lands, and from what he heard, he was doing so deftly, but he felt hollow. 

Pretty girls from the Storm Lands, daughters of Lords and Ladies lower than his new status, were presented to him as wives. Promises of children, a lady to run his home, a wife to keep him company. He never even considered it, and sat alone at the head of the family table, below the Baratheon Stags Head sigil carved into the stonework behind his head, watching as his house ate and drank each night at his hearth. 

The loneliest lord in all the seven kingdoms. That’s what they called him. 

But he didn’t care. 

Because no matter what southern lady or northern girl was offered, she was always too soft around the edges. Her hair was never the right shade, her eyes never wild enough. 

No matter who she was, she was never Arya Stark of Winterfell, a highborne girl of a great northern house, and the only woman he’d ever loved. 

He often fell asleep thinking of the night they were together, so long ago. Of her hands, frantic on his shirt strings, of her lips, eager and a little unsure on his own, of her skin, warm beneath what he was sure were rough hands. 

So he lived, he became the lord of a great house, he ruled over the Storm Lands, and he stared out over the grey skies above the sea and realised how much they reminded him of her eyes. 

The loneliest lord indeed. 

Until one day, he woke with a sharp point under his chin, and he knew it was her. 

Before he even opened his eyes, he’s knew. 

Even in times of peace, great lords had soldiers who guarded them in their sleep, outside their chambers, with armour and great big swords, and yet here he was, a thin sword pressed under his chin, it’s wielder hidden in the darkness of the room. He couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Arya.” He whispered, and he heard her huff. 

“Did I even frighten you a little?” She sounded annoyed, but he knew better. He always knew her better. 

He could have lied, and pretended like she had, but she wasn’t one for platitudes. He could never lie to her anyway. 

“I knew it was you. Before I even opened my eyes.”

“How?”

“Because no one else could have made it past my guards.”

He could tell she had rolled her eyes even in the dark. 

“You and my sister.” She scoffed. “You think your guards are so good. You need better ones.”

“The best guards in all the seven kingdoms wouldn’t be able to catch you.” He breathed, and she removed Needle from his chin, and he could swear he heard her laugh a little. “It’s the middle of the night, Arya.”

“And?” She said, as if the statement was ridiculous. 

“Do you often sneak into the bedrooms of Lords so late?” He asked, sitting up and leaning over to grab matches to light the candle by his bedside, until she reached out, quick and quiet, and grabbed his hand. 

“Worried what I might have found?” 

“Weren’t you?” He asked, and it feels heavy. 

“Should I have been?” She asked, and he realised she’s still holding his wrist, a delicate grip, and his skin burned where she was touching him. 

“No.” He says, without hesitation. “Haven’t you heard? Lord Gendry Baratheon of the Storm Lands is the loneliest lord in all the seven kingdoms.” 

“I had heard.” She said, and her voice seemed small, and he flipped his hand to hold her wrist, pulling her closer. She came without hesitation. 

“And?” He asked, finally able to make out some of her features through the dark, the earliest signs of dawn washing her in a cold blue light. Her hair was a little longer, and her face a little thinner, age finally having removed the roundness childhood had left behind, but she was Arya. Beautiful, strong, Arya Stark. His heart was pounding in his chest. “Why did you ask?”

“Such tales are often lies. Or the common folk just don’t know. Tavern wenches and whores and the like, not that there’s... not that you...” He had never heard her unsure, and he pulled her closer still, until her knees hit the side of his bed. He pulled her hand up and pressed a kiss into the skin on the inside of her small wrist. 

“There have been tavern girls. Only a few, maybe four or five? But they never stay, not even for the night.”

“Oh?” She asked, her voice stronger now. She liked honesty. 

“It happened mostly at the beginning. Thought I could fuck away the feeling of your skin. Didn’t work though.” He heard her breath hitch just a little, so soft that if he hadn’t been trying to drink in every single ounce of her that he could pull from the room, he’d have missed it. He could feel his younger self gasping at the way he spoke. Improper, indecent, to speak of such things with a Lady of a great house. But he didn’t care. “Eventually I just stopped. No point, really.” 

“No point?” She asked, her eyes wide, blinking slow, watching him watch her. 

“It almost made it worse.” He found himself start, and decided not to stop. “I always woke up wishing you were the last person I’d ever kissed.” He was going to scare her away but he didn’t care. He was going to say it, because she came her, and he owed it to himself. She had left once, and he had learned to live like this, with loneliness etched deep into his bones. If she left again, he knew where to find it. 

But she didn’t leave, or pull away. He slid his hand up and grasped the back of her elbow, and she let him. He sat up in bed, swinging his legs over the side, in nothing but his sleep breeches, and pulled her in to stand between his legs, and she let him. She was close, her legs against the mattress, and he could smell her, a musty scent that brought back the feeling of a grain bag against his back. 

“I always fell asleep wishing she had been you. I woke up wishing I’d been kissing you. I’d go through my day in a daze, wishing her skin had been yours. No point, if that was all it led to. There was never anyone else.” He put his other hand on her waist, and she raised one to his cheek, tracing his jaw bone with her finger tips, and he was grateful she didn’t flinch away when he sighed and leaned into her touch. 

“Oh.” It wasn’t a question this time, but it felt more weighted all the same. 

“And you?” He asked, letting himself press his fingertips into her rib cage, feeling her solid beneath him. His hand still on her elbow was acting as a barrier, and he wouldn’t move it until she did, but he felt her fingers grasp at his own arm a little rough, like she was trying to ground herself in him, and her eyes flitted closed at the feeling of his hands on her torso. “Was there ever anyone else?” 

“One or two.” She whispered.

“Which is it?” He asked, only teasing a little. “One? Or two?” Laughter in her eyes made him smile, and he pressed her more. “You don’t remember?” She laughed out loud this time, soft but clear, remembering her own pressing questions from the first time... the only time. 

“I didn’t keep count.” She mocked back, and he followed her lead. 

“Yes you did.” He said, his skin on fire, his heart beating so hard it might jump from his chest. He swallowed, and he was sure King Jon could hear it all the way in kings landing. 

“Two.” She said, and he expected to feel jealously licking up his spine, but he didn’t. “A boy from Dorne, and a girl from the Iron Islands.” 

“Did it last?” 

“No.” She said, and it felt like she needed to say more, so he waited. “The girl, a bastard of Balon Greyjoy, Keira Pyke... she was fierce, and I thought... but it didn’t. She sailed east with Yara’s fleet and never came back.”

“Did you love her?” He asked, and he finds that he hopes she did. Hopes she had love from someone besides Sansa and Jon. Or Bran, but he wasn’t sure if that love even felt the same for her anymore. 

“No.” She said, and he knew she was sure. 

“And the boy?”

“A blacksmith, it was only for a little while. I sailed to Dorne with Sansa, as her Queen’s Guard when Brienne was ill, while she negotiated with their king about trade routes with The North.”

“And?”

“He had eyes like yours, and dark hair, and if I closed my eyes his hands felt like yours.” She whispered this part, like she was afraid of how he’d react. As if he hadn’t told her he’d tried to fuck away the way her skin felt, the way her hands felt, the way  she felt. He leaned his head over and pressed a kiss into her forearm, her hand on his neck still tracing small patterns and making him shiver. 

She finally slid her other hand higher, closing the gap between them, burying her face into his neck and wrapping her arms around him. He held her, and slowly, like a question, leaned back and rolled them slightly to pull her into the empty space in his bed that was always meant for her. 

She let herself be pulled, and stayed wrapped around him, and he felt her breathing slow until she was asleep, but even when exhaustion hit he never let himself sleep, because he was afraid she’d be gone when he opened his eyes. 

She stayed the next day, taking breakfast with him in his chambers. She sat across the small table and it felt like too far. 

She trained in his courtyard with his soldiers, and he got nothing done all day, watching her as she beat them all with ease, a knife to their throats before they even realised she had one, laughing the whole way. 

She joined him for dinner in the hall, sitting at the end of the table closest to his, her eyes on him the whole time. He had three cups of wine, because she did. He followed her every move, sure he was somehow dreaming. The people of his house whispered about the Princess of the North and of Westeros, sister of Queen Sansa and King Jon, the Faceless girl, the girl who had slayed the Night King, the girl who had ended the entirety of House Frey. He watched her, and she watched him, and he remembered once again that the girl he loved was immortalised in legends and tales, whispered about by little girls, sang about in taverns from here to Essos. Arya Stark, the hero of the Battle of Winterfell, the girl who had ended the long night, the saviour of the realms of men. She was more than a girl to most, but somehow, she was still just Arya to him. 

She followed him to his chambers at the end of the night, after sitting in the corner while he discussed what was needed for his kitchen with his cook, propped up and thumbing through an old book about the Sand Snakes of Dorne that he had requested from his Maester when he first got to Storms End, because he knew she’d want to read it. 

She sat at the end of his bed, legs out, toes pressed against his thigh, watching him read through the letters he’s received that day. 

“You should have taken a wife. A lord needs a lady.” Her voice almost startled him, she was always so quiet. The way she said it was almost like it was just occurring to her. 

“Any suggestions? I have a few requirements.”

“And those are?” She asked, picking up the letter closest to her that he’d thrown away from him. A note from Yara Greyjoy, offering fish for some of the grain stores he’d accumulated. He’d ticked in the corner to remind himself to send a few wagons down to meet the Iron Fleet. 

He thought about making jokes, or just listing off her qualities to let her know it would only ever be her. Instead he just looked up, and stared at her. 

She had taken her hair down, and was in soft linen pants and a billowing tunic, and he was sure he’d never tire of looking at her. 

She looked up, clearly expecting an answer, even one meant as a joke, but whatever words were in her throat failed when she met his gaze. 

“I don’t need a Lady, Arya.” He set the unread letters on the table by his bed, and gathered the others, unceremoniously dumping them on his floor, before grabbing her ankles and pulling her towards him, until she was even with his knees. She tucked her feet under her, and he sat up, leaning on his side, propping up on his elbow, and lifting his right hand to fiddle with the sleeve of her tunic. 

“Every house needs a Lady, Gendry.” She said, almost annoyed but not quiet. 

“Say that again.” He whispered, because the sound of his name on her tongue took his breath away.

“Every house needs a Lady?” She asked, and he shook his head, pressing up to be as close to her as he felt like he could. 

“No, Arya. Not that.” She swallowed loud, and he felt a soft glimmer of hope that maybe she felt even half as wrecked by him as he felt by her. 

“Gendry.” She whispered. “Gendry. Gendry. Gendry. Gendry.” She kept saying it, over and over, and he closed his eyes, revelling in it. 

“I don’t need a Lady, Arya. I can hire someone to do everything a Lady does. I don’t need a Lady.” 

“But you’re lonely.” 

“A lady wouldn’t make me less lonely.” He said, opening his eyes again. She glanced down at her hands, twisted in her lap, and he lifted a finger to raise her chin, making her meet his eyes. “No point, really.” He said, with a shrug, but his eyes said it for him. 

“I can’t be-“

“I don’t need a Lady, Arya.” He repeated. 

“If I.... I’d be the lady of this house if I...”

“I’d give all of this up right now, for you.” He whispered, and watched as she leaned closer almost like the words had dragged at the tether that always existed between them. 

“You can’t do that.” 

“I would, and I will.” He said, trying to make her feel it. “I’ll ride to Jon right now, I’ll give it up. All of it. I’ll name someone else the lord of this fucking place, I’ll denounce that stupid stag sigil and the name of a king I never knew,I’ll give up this fucking title and all that comes with it.”

“These people, they need you.”

“Guess I’m just selfish, then.” He said, pointed. His eyes never left her face, and she finally met his gaze. 

Her expression changed, when she realised he meant it. 

“Why?” She said, and for the first time in all the many years he’d known her, she seemed small.

He sat up, sliding himself around so his legs were on either side of her, resting a hand on the top of her thigh, raising the other to cup her cheek. 

“I told you years ago, when Daener-“ he cut off at the name of the dragon queen. He’d heard of the destruction at King’s Landing, he knew she’d been there. “When I was given all this. I told you. You’re beautiful. I love you. And none of this means anything if you’re not with me. I might be a wonderful lord, but I’d rather live the rest of my days on the streets of flea bottom if it meant you’d stay.” 

“Gendry, you-“

“I made a mistake, asking you to be the lady of storms end. I knew that wasn’t you, but I asked anyway, because I thought I was finally good enough for you. I had a name, and a title, and lands, and even though I knew you didn’t want to be a lady I thought maybe you wanted me to have those things, if you were going to be with me. I made a mistake.”

“I didn’t ... I just...” She seemed like she wanted to say something but wasn’t able to find the words. He just kept speaking, because he needed to say all the words that had been wracking around in his head for half a decade. 

“Just stay. Or if you have to go, come back. My home is yours, my bed is yours. My life is yours. My heart is yours. Or if you want, I’ll give it up and we can go together, wherever you want. Stay with me, Arya.” 

“I just...” she huffed out an exasperated sound, and kissed him. 

He felt himself freeze, and mentally kicked himself, before he reacted. She tried to be fierce, to rush, but he refused. He slowed her down, with his lips, until the kiss was easy and breathless. He deepened it, licking gently into her mouth, cupping her face, holding her. She seemed to falter, as if she had no idea what to do with such softness. 

“Is this okay?” He whispered against her mouth, because she seemed uncertain all of a sudden. He pulled back only a little, brushing his nose against hers. 

“I just want- I want-“ she gripped his shirt and tried to hurry them up again, but he reached down and held her hands, pulling back. 

“Not this time, Arya Stark.” He said, and he was sure he’d never spoken to anyone with as much softness as he spoke to her now. “Not like that.” 

She looked at him, her eyes wide, the same look she’d had all those years ago when he’d first told her he loved her. “This time,” He whispered, pressing a kiss into her palms, “slow,” in the crease of her elbow, “this time, the world isn’t ending,” her shoulder, as he slid her tunic to the side to teacher her skin, “this time, I’m going to mean it.”

“Mean it?” She whispered, breathless, as he pressed a kiss into her clavicle. 

“I love you, Arya Stark.” He said, against the column of her neck, kissing up, up under her jaw, across her cheek, and pausing at her mouth. 

“I don’t know what to do... I’ve never...” she looked like a girl again, barely 24, and he loved her. “Not like this.”

“Good.” He whispered, and kissed her soundly again, her mouth soft against his. He let them stay there a moment, kissing, sitting up, her perched between his legs, her hands resting on his chest. He moved slow, trying not to startle her, lifting his own shirt and letting it drop on the floor on the discarded notes. She lifted up off her calves, pressing her chest against him, letting her arms rest on his shoulders, playing with his hair that had grown back to its shaggy length from when they had met as children. He slid his hands around her waist, finding the hem of her tunic and lifting it to feel the skin of her back, soft and warm against his hands. He slid them up, until he had pulled her into him, his hands on her upper back, his arms wrapped around her, kissing her breathlessly. 

He wasn’t sure he’d ever kissed anyone like this. 

He was sure, though, that he would never kiss anyone but her again. 

She raised her arms, and he lifted her tunic off, dropping it to mingle with his on the floor, pressing kisses across her chest and the rounds of her breasts, still holding her as close as he could. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered into his hair, and he froze. She didn’t make to pull away, but his heart stopped. She must have felt him, and leaned down to lift his chin and kiss him again, deep and soft. “I’m sorry I left you. I’m sorry I...” he stayed frozen, like somehow he was the wolf, and she a frightened stag, and not the other way around. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I loved you back.” She whispered it, and it felt like everything fell silent except her breathing and his own. “I always loved you, before I knew what love was. But you... Cersei was still alive and I thought I’d live and die by my list. And then I was in the Keep and Sandor... he... he sent me home and I realised that I thought I’d lost every part of myself other than the list and my connection to my siblings. But I hadn’t. I loved you, back then. I think I still love you now.” 

“Okay.” He said, because it felt like what she needed. She didn’t need him to reassure her that it was okay, because she knew he had been heartbroken. She didn’t need him to say it back, because she already knew. She just needed him to hear it, to know it, and to accept it. So he did. 

“Okay.” She whispered, and she kissed him again, and he felt like his heart was mending with her every sigh. 

He leaned her back, letting her untangle her legs from under herself, laying her down, her hair splayed across the furs at the end of his bed, her ivory skin bright in the candlelight. He hovered above her, his hands on either side of her head, gazing at her. 

“You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He whispered, because even though it was late, and no one else would ever hear, he meant it only for her. 

For a moment she looked like she wanted to protest, but he leaned down and kissed across the scars on her rib cage, from a story she’d yet to tell him, and she sighed. He kissed across her stomach and down to her hip bones, pulled her pants away from her skin, lifting her hips to drag them off her legs and drop them to the floor, before sliding up and kissing her again, her warm skin burning him everywhere they touched. The sound of her soft sighs made him feel brave. 

“Can you say it again?” He asked, against her lips, a wrapped under her body holding her close, gently playing with the hair on her temple. She smiled wide, making it hard to kiss, so he kissed her neck instead.

“Which thing?” She whispered, and he remembered the sound of his name on her lips. 

“Both.” He said against her breast, travelling down her body. 

“Alright.” She whispered, letting her fingers scratch his scalp softly. 

“I love you, Gendry Barath-“

He surged up and kissed her, cutting her off. 

“Not with that.” He whispered, and she pushed him back just a little, looking at him. “With you, I’m just Gendry.” 

She nodded, and bit her own lip for a moment. 

“You’re the reason I can be Arya Stark again.” She said, and to anyone but him it would make no sense. It would sound like the musings of a girl lost, but he knows. He knows who she became in Braavos, what she lost. 

“I love you, Arya Stark.” He said, as she wrapped her arms around his back, pulling him down until all his weight was on her. 

“I love you, Gendry.” She said, and he hoped he’d get to hear that sound every day. 

But for now he was going to love her, in all the ways he could. 

He kissed down her body again, over her hip bones and her upper thigh, easing her legs apart and lifting them to his shoulders, laying flat and pressing kisses across the soft flesh of the insides of her thighs, listening to her breathing. She slid a hand down and grasped at his, pulling it up and lacing their fingers together on her stomach, he kissed into her heat. She was warm, and wet against his chin, and he ground his own his down on his bed at the taste of her. He licked into her over and over, lifting his other hand to push one finger, then two, into her warmth as he did, until she was clenching and using her spare hand to grip his hair, her thighs strong against his ears. He stayed, pulling her over again, because he could, because he wanted too, before she pulled him up away from her and to her lips again. He kept their fingers laced, pushing them up above her head, settling between her legs, grinding down against her, warm and wet through his trousers. 

She used her spare hand to reach down and shove at them, and he let go of her hand to do it for her, pulling them off, loosing them to the floor below, pulling himself back over her, pressing his body down over her, feeling every inch of her skin against him. 

She cupped his face with her hands, kissing him like she might disintegrate if she wasn’t able too, holding him as close as she could, before she hooked a leg around his waist and flipped them over, so fast he barely realised what was happening. 

He couldn’t help the laughter that burst from his chest. 

“Of course.” 

“That was nice.” She whispered against his neck, and he felt himself shudder as she kissed down and over his shoulder. 

“Just nice?” He teased, and she buried her face into his neck, resting against him. “And here I thought all that trembling and gasping you were doing meant I did something right.” 

“You did.” She said, placing her forearms down to frame his head. “Twice.” She kissed the corner of his jaw bone, gentle. 

“Oh thank goodness for that.” He said, laughing as she shoved him, playful but hard. 

She reached down and gripped him in her hand, and he felt himself lurch without warning, and he gripped her hips hard at the feeling. She tugged at him for a moment, until he reached down and stopped her, with what he was sure was an exasperated look in his eyes. 

“Arya.” He growled and she laughed, before sitting back and sliding down over him, earning her a heavy groan, releasing a soft moan herself. She rolled her hips one, twice, before he sat up, and pulled them back until he was sitting against the footboard of his bed, her legs around his waist and her chest pressed against his. 

She rolled her hips again, over and over, and he kissed her to capture the noises she was making, pouring from her mouth and washing over him, because he wanted to taste the sound. 

He hit his peak before she did, gripping at her skins and her hair, whispering her name over and over into her ear, the sweat on their skin making them slide against each other, and she rolled her hips more, until she was shaking and holding him close and saying she loved him into the space in his shoulder where she had buried her face. 

They sat there for a while, until the cold air of the night had dried their hot skin, and he lifted her and pulled her into him, yanking the furs over them, his feet still at his headboard, and he fell asleep with her in his arms, her mouth against his shoulder, the sound of her saying his name still ringing in his ears. 

He woke up, and she wasn’t in his bed, and he panicked. 

Her clothes were gone, Needle was gone, his bed was cold where she had been, and he felt his chest begin to ache again, the way it had for years. He yanked on clothes, and wandered out into the courtyard, realising it was still the early hours of the morning. 

He was heading to his forge, because it was the only place he could go now, after she had loved him and gone, when he heard the distinctive thwack of an arrow hitting a target, and turned a corner to find her shooting into a large hay bale in the stables. 

He stood in the door frame, watching her, watching as she pulled the bow string taught, and managed to shave the edge of the last arrow she’d shot. 

“Morning.” She said, and even though she didn’t look up, he saw her smile. 

“I thought you left.” He said, and she turned at that, dropping her bow and walking over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, kissing against his neck. “I needed to think.” 

“S’alright.” He said, kissing into her forehead, and though he was saying it to be kind, he realised it was true. She would always be this girl, who would dart off in the quiet, without warning. He couldn’t try to cage her, even if he wanted too. She was a wolf, after all. 

She stayed a few days, before she had to leave. She gathered her things, and kissed him softly on the cheek, and made no promises of when she’d return. 

He spent months with no word, until a letter came from Sansa that she was to be married, and that he should attend, and so he rode north. For the Queen. 

But mostly to see Arya again. 

He went, and Arya was there, watching as Podrick Payne married the Queen in the North in the Godswood of Winterfell. 

She brought him to her bed every night, even though he tried not to expect it from her. 

She left Winterfell, riding south, and he didn’t try to follow. 

She’d come, sometimes, appearing at the gates of Storms End unannounced, and she would leave just as suddenly, staying a few days, on occasion weeks, once she even stayed a few months, but she always left in the end. 

But she kissed him goodbye every time, and that was all he needed. 

She never stayed, because that wasn’t her. She was a Direwolf, he knew. Wild, sometimes almost feral. She was Arya Stark, and she would not be kept. 

He was Gendry, the lord of Storms End. 

He loved Arya Stark, and she loved him back. 

He was hers, however that looked. He was hers, and she was his family. He was part of her pack.

A direwolf and a stag, meant to be. 

She always left. 

But she always came back. 

And he never kissed anyone but her for the rest of his days. 


End file.
